


Spring forward, fall back

by songforeverystory



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Cabin, F/F, Maybe I'll do a part two, One Shot, Post Season 2, at all, i can't wait for season three, i know it is not going to be like this, lake, not alaska
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:34:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23300989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/songforeverystory/pseuds/songforeverystory
Summary: Eve and Villanelle have an honest conversation.
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Comments: 39
Kudos: 357





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, lovelies.
> 
> I've been gone for a while, busy with uni and work and other things and I haven't felt all that motivated to write. But with uni closed because of the virus, I have A LOT of time on my hands and figured I'd get back into it in anticipation for S3. 
> 
> For those asking, If she belonged to me is on pause for right now. I've forgotten where I was going with it, but I hope to return to it at some point!!
> 
> Hope you enjoy!!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovelies.
> 
> I've been gone for a while, busy with uni and work and other things and I haven't felt all that motivated to write. But with uni closed because of the virus, I have A LOT of time on my hands and figured I'd get back into it in anticipation for S3. 
> 
> For those asking, If she belonged to me is on pause for right now. I've forgotten where I was going with it, but I hope to return to it at some point!!

She learns that if she rocks the chair too vigorously, it creaks.

She becomes fixated on the fact and digs her heels incessantly between the wood panels that make up the decking, pushes almost painfully until the chair is reclined as far back as it will go, and then she lets go.

She lets go and the chair swings forward, creaking, just as she had anticipated. It creaks a few times whilst it rocks back and forth, growing quieter and quieter as it loses momentum and silent by the time it slows to a complete stop.

She does it again.

And again.

And again.

Rocks the chair, listens for the creaks and stares out across Lake Bled.

She sighs sadly when it stops.

Long before now, this scenario had been an ideal, a likely future. Years into retirement, she and Niko would relocate from the city either to the countryside or to the beach and they would live in a tiny, cosy home that overlooked a body of water. Niko would spend his days cooking and gardening, whilst Eve sat in a rocking chair on the porch reading her books.

Here she is, sitting on the porch of a cosy cabin that overlooks Lake Bled – one of Slovenia’s many vast bodies of water.

Her brain is too busy for books.

Bodies and blood occupy her thoughts.

Lake Bled, how ironic.

She rolls her eyes.

There really was no better place on earth to be doing this.

She hadn’t anticipated it, certainly not so soon, certainly not so easily.

The last six months have been rough in more ways than one. Financially, Niko had ruined her in the divorce. He got the house and most of its contents and the things that she had been able to cling on to have long been pawned. To facilitate this little trip.

She justified it by telling herself that she didn’t have a house to put her late grandmother’s old dresser in anyway, and she had insufficient funds to hire a storage unit to hold on to it indefinitely.

She tells herself that she mustn’t be sentimental anymore, that she's spent too much time holding on to things that she ought to let go of.

Physically, it has taken her a long time to recover from the gunshot wound, even though it had missed all major organs. Perhaps it was an unwillingness to recover from it, she isn’t sure. The scar is ghastly, and she hates looking at it but loves the feeling of it beneath her fingertips.

Often, she finds herself stroking it before she falls asleep, wondering if _she_ ever stroked her scar too.

Emotionally… well.

Rome had completely unravelled her, once and for all and in every way possible. It had cast doubt on everything that she had ever believed about herself and now, six months on and staring out into oblivion, she’s a completely different person.

It was hard to accept, only because it had hit her like a ton of bricks. Realistically, she had been on a path of self-destruction, or self-discovery, depending on which way you look at it, for years, but it was only on that day, in that one moment, that she had realised that she had been getting herself so wrong for so many years.

Forty-eight years of getting herself wrong and not feeling right and then suddenly she did.

She feels right now.

It’s wrong to feel right about the person that she is, she realises, but she overlooks it.

She’s here, in Slovenia, rocking in a rocking chair and she thinks of all of it and none of it simultaneously.

All of it – there’s too much of it.

Too much to think about and not enough time to think about it.

She thinks about how her new life is a far cry away from her old one.

Up until flying out to Slovenia, she had been working in a Korean barbeque restaurant in order to pay her rent. It was dull, but it turned out that she was good with knives.

She worked twelve-hour days in the kitchen, chopping up cheap meat.

She thinks of Raymond, almost fondly for a moment and then it passes.

Emotionally, she isn’t anywhere close to recovery.

There are a lot of unresolved feelings.

Rage. Constant, debilitating rage. At everything and everyone involved. Mostly at herself.

Hopelessness. She is so lost, so unsatisfied with her life. She finds herself at a roadblock that no matter how hard she tries; she can’t seem to overcome.

She abruptly stops rocking the chair, lets her head fall back against it and closes her eyes for just a moment, concentrating on her breathing.

She is so tired of being so angry and so lost.

She’s given up everything and she has absolutely nothing to show for it.

With her eyes closed, her other senses go into overdrive and she manages to pick up the faint scent of burning. It reminds her of the log burner inside the cabin and the fire that she hasn’t stoked in hours. She hasn’t moved from her seat; has no idea how much time has passed even.

The wind carries the scent away and replaces it with the musty smell of the lake.

She opens her eyes, blinks at they burn from the cold and looks back out at the water.

It’s early autumn, October, and the clouds are low in the sky. They hover just above the water and she watches, enamoured, as the mountains fight their way through them to be seen.

She exhales and half expects to see her breath, but it’s not quite cold enough.

It’s chilly out, but not freezing and she finds that the jacket tossed haphazardly around her shoulders and the blanket covering her legs are sufficient at keeping out the cold.

She arrived only a few hours ago and had been sat here ever since unpacking her things in the bedroom.

She likes how quiet it is out here, how peaceful it is. Inevitably, the calm before the storm.

The door creaks open behind her and she lifts her head just enough, tilting it to the side.

She isn’t looking, but she’s listening.

She hears the clattering of porcelain teacups and silver teaspoons as they move around on a tray.

It’s not gentle in its delivery, but it never has been, never will be.

The tray appears on the table beside her and she regards it carefully.

A teapot, most likely English Breakfast as well as milk and sugar and biscuits and… something else.

“You ought to be more careful,” she says, lifting a chipped teacup and frowning, using her thumb to test out the sharpness of it.

Not sharp enough.

Her companion shrugs, pulls a jacket on to shield herself from the cold and takes a seat.

They don’t really look at one another and neither of them moves to pour themselves a drink.

“Should I?” Villanelle gestures towards the teapot, offering to pour for her, but Eve shakes her head.

“No, it needs to brew.”

Villanelle nods and pours her drink out for herself.

“What’s that?” Eve asks nonchalantly, making attempts to break the ice.

It’s weird to be together after so long and without a chase or a trail of bodies.

It’s amicable, somehow.

Unnerving.

“It’s tea” Villanelle shrugs.

“Well… yes, what kind?”

Villanelle takes a sip, looks at her momentarily and shrugs again. “Spiced tea, with a hint of pumpkin.”

Eve raises her eyebrow, tilts her head to the side and nods slowly. “So… pumpkin spice?”

Villanelle’s eyes widen and she furiously shakes her head. “No, spiced tea, with a hint of pumpkin.”

Eve lets it go and they bask in silence for a while, interrupted only when she moves to pour out tea for herself.

She lifts it to her lips and takes a sip without even considering whether or not Villanelle might have tampered with it, not caring if she has.

She watches as the younger woman gets lost in her own head, thinking, and gives her the space to do so, expecting something profound.

Moments pass, or minutes, she isn’t sure and she just watches, waits.

“It is not pumpkin spice; I am not _basic_ like that.”

Eve nods. “Okay.”

Villanelle nods too, looking out and admiring the same view that Eve has been admiring for the last few hours.

She had thought about it often and had concluded that it was unlikely they would ever find themselves in the same place at the same time, looking at the same things ever again.

Yet here they were.

It had taken her months to get here, to realise that she needed to see Villanelle one last time, to get the closure they most certainly didn’t get in Rome. It had taken almost the same amount of time to track her down.

She remembers, whilst watching her, the anxiety that had overcome her when she had dialled the cell phone number attached to the two-step authentication on what seemed to be a reasonably new email address account.

It was almost like Villanelle was asking to be found.

Eve wasn’t a hacker, by any means, but she had picked up a few tricks whilst working with Kenny.

Enough to get her here, it seems.

They had spoken only briefly on the phone, to verify that they were indeed speaking to each other, that they weren’t being set up, and the rest of their communication had happened via text message.

Two weeks later, here they were, reunited in the flesh.

She doesn’t know why it’s so important. Whether it’s for closure or clarity. All she knows is that it’s the last ounce of fight left in her and that the situation has to be resolved one way or another.

She tries not to get too caught up in imagining exactly _how_ it might be resolved, reminding herself that she cannot reignite this thing between them under any circumstances.

“You wanted to see me, Eve?” Villanelle interrupts her thoughts.

She hums, tries to get herself back on track and nods her head. She nods until she processes the question that she has been asked and then she shakes her head instead. “Not _want_. I didn’t _want_ to see you, but I had to.”

Villanelle looks at her again.

She looks sombre, not the same as she had months ago in Rome.

Perhaps she was changed to, in some ways.

“Okay. Why?”

Eve gulps. Why? Such a loaded question.

“Well, because I can’t stop thinking about you.”

It comes out all wrong. Her delivery has never been eloquent. She is scatter-brained at the best of times and useless under pressure, as she had proven time and time again whilst working for MI6.

A few wrong decisions and here she was.

Villanelle preens. Eve shakes her head and clarifies. “I _want_ to stop thinking about you.”

Hurt flashes across Villanelle’s face momentarily, similar to the expression that she had worn in the Roman ruins and then: “No you don’t.”

She’s smirking now. Her lips are curled upwards, her eyes are shining. She’s tormenting her.

Cocky and self-righteous Villanelle is still alive and kicking. She may have changed, but if she has, it’s not a lot.

Eve’s lips curl upwards too, and she leans forward, closer to her, bracing herself for an argument. “Yes, I do.”

She was glad to have arrived first, to have had time to prepare for… this.

Villanelle had arrived barely an hour ago. She had nodded in Eve’s general direction, not even looking her in the eye or saying hello before heading inside.

To make tea, apparently, but it had only given Eve time to seethe.

She was ready.

“No, you don’t,” Villanelle says, quicker this time, without a moment of hesitation, “I am glad that you are alive and well, Eve.”

Eve can’t tell if it’s genuine, so she furrows her brows, lets it sink in for a moment. She tries not to let Villanelle’s brazen, matter-of-fact way of speaking irk her. She has to be on top form. They were dancing their dance for the last time, after all.

“No thanks to you,” she utters with a raised eyebrow. “Are you sorry?”

Villanelle doesn’t think before she answers, doesn’t need to. “Nope.”

Eve is unsurprised.

Villanelle exhales heavily and leans back in her chair. “I was very upset, Eve,” a beat and then, “but I could have handled it better; I should have handled it better.”

“Handled _what_ better?” Eve asks, dumbfounded. There was no justification for what Villanelle had done, absolutely none. She had driven Eve to the edge, so if anyone was deserving of a bullet, it wasn’t Eve.

“The situation. You pulling away, rejecting me, acting like you did. You were shocked, I should have realised that you did not mean what you were saying.”

Eve scoffs. “Villanelle,” she laughs, “please. I meant what I said.”

Villanelle’s features soften, rather than harden like they had last time and she nods. “Okay.”

Silence again.

Eve had played this confrontation out in her head time and time again. Never had it gone like this.

“You said on the phone that you wanted to talk,” Villanelle reminds her, “what do you want to talk about?”

Eve laughs, irritated again. She puts her head in her hands and rubs her face emphatically. She’s beyond frustrated. She wants to get to the screaming and the shouting and whatever might follow.

“What _isn’t_ there to talk about?”

Villanelle looks uneasy, reaches for her tea and takes a sip, waiting patiently for the barrage of abuse that is likely to spew from Eve’s mouth.

It doesn’t come, instead, there’s silence again.

For a while, nothing but silence.

They drink tea and they admire the view and then they look to one another again.

“I’ve lost everything because of you” Eve reminds her.

Villanelle nods her head in agreement. “I know—”

Eve cuts her off. “I know that you know. I don’t need you to talk, I need you to listen.”

Villanelle presses her lips together in a thin line, offers her a curt nod and gestures for her to continue.

“I know that you’re proud of yourself, for _breaking_ me. I know that you were pleased with yourself for what you made me do in Rome. I killed him and I killed him to save you.”

She feels so angry. Again and again, angry. At herself. Mostly herself, she realises.

“I know,” Villanelle says before Eve has the chance to shush her again, “I was pleased.”

She doesn’t deny it, at least.

“I wasn’t ready.” Eve deadpans. It’s complete and total acceptance but she realises that there is a difference between accepting herself and presenting herself as who she is to others.

It’s a big deal.

And it’s a shame because really Villanelle is the only person that she’ll ever be able to share this much of herself with.

“I know,” Villanelle says again, “and I am sorry for that.”

Eve nods, attempts to process it, tries to figure out how to gain total control over the situation again.

She had thought that she had it all in hand.

Up to now, everything had been on her terms.

“If you’re so _sorry,_ then why did you shoot me?”

Villanelle sighs. “I was hurt. I am not sorry for shooting you, because you hurt me first. I am sorry that you weren’t ready though, I thought that you were.”

Eve snorts. “You thought?” she can’t help but laugh. “You coerced me into doing it, you practically _forced_ me, Villanelle.”

It feels like a personal regression. She had spent so much time accepting responsibility for what she had done but coming face-to-face with Villanelle presents her with the perfect opportunity to deflect and shift the blame to someone else.

Villanelle disagrees with her accusations it seems, because she turns her head away and crosses her arms over her chest like a petulant child, waiting for her chance to speak.

“Go ahead, say what you have to say” Eve urges, lusting after a confrontation. Just one more time.

“I didn’t force you, I _encouraged_ you” Villanelle argues after a beat.

“Oh, and the difference is?” Eve asked, eyebrows raised, leaning closer, invading the woman’s personal space, but she doesn’t bite.

Instead, she sighs, looks hopelessly down at her hands and plays with her fingers before regarding her again. “I wanted you to choose for yourself, but I knew that you wouldn’t. I wanted you to know yourself, completely. I wanted you to see what you are capable of.” Villanelle shrugs, seemingly having resigned herself to the fact that she is not going to win here, no matter what she says.

She has no idea that she _always_ has the upper hand when it comes to Eve.

So why do they both feel like they are losing?

“Oh, I knew—” Eve trails off because she hadn’t known beforehand, not really. She had fantasised sometimes, but it was different, putting it into practice, letting it overcome her, engulf her. It was different to allow herself to become what she had feared she might be.

“You didn’t know,” Villanelle says calmly, “I wanted you to realise and I wanted you to see that we’re really not so different and I wanted you to love me unashamedly. I wanted you to leave with me, not to become Bonnie and Clyde, or whatever, but to just _be_ with me.”

Eve’s heart drops to the pit of her stomach. Villanelle’s upset, she realises. Her eyes are watery, and Eve looks closer, looking for the same signs of deception she had picked up on that day over shepherd’s pie. They’re not there.

It’s unnerving, watching Villanelle trying to hold it back; she’s trying to be measured and restrained and careful.

She’s failing, but she’s trying, nevertheless.

She’s not angry at all, she just looks so desperately sad.

“I was too soon, I don’t deny it,” Villanelle reluctantly admits, “but I think that you did love me in the spring.”

She avoids referencing Rome directly which Eve finds strange, almost like its too painful a memory to rehash, to talk about.

Still, she disagrees. “I didn’t love you, Villanelle… I don’t love you”.

That same pained expression from Rome, but instead of brandishing a weapon in her general direction, Villanelle offers a hesitant nod and looks away.

“Things were… changing then, I don’t know,” Villanelle shrugs, “something had changed, you felt differently about me somehow.”

Eve mulls the thought over in her head. Villanelle romanticised it, but Eve had had six months to convince herself that it hadn’t ever been romantic at all.

“I don’t know,” she admits, sighing and leaning back some, digging her heels back into the cracks between the wood panels, pushing and letting go and letting it rock and creak and calm her somewhat, “things were different, yes. I have always been interested in you, in what you do, but I got _too_ interested.”

She’s softening.

Villanelle sighs and goes to protest, but Eve cuts her off.

“It started to feel like it was a possibility that things could progress… maybe sexually, I don’t know, but that’s not love Villanelle, that’s obsession. It wasn’t healthy.”

Villanelle rolls her eyes. “You cannot decide that you want some things to be normal and some things to be interesting, Eve. We are not normal, the way we love, show love, receive love… it is not normal. Otherwise, you would still be with _Niko_ ”.

Her ex-husband’s name is said so condescendingly that she laughs. “Maybe you’re right,” she agrees, “but in any case, I wasn’t there yet, I wasn’t ready for things to progress with you or to do what I did.”

“But you were thinking about it? You thought it was possible?” Villanelle asks and its heartbreakingly hopeful.

“I was thinking about it,” she agrees, there’s no point in lying, “obviously I was thinking about it.”

Villanelle sighs, relieved. “Well, it is not too late,” she says, leaning towards her, daring to reach out to try to touch her again. Eve, powerless to stop it, allows her arm to be held and sighs.

“It is far too late, Villanelle. There’s too much water under the bridge.” she frowns, reaches for the woman too, comfortingly stroking her arm.

She watches Villanelle take it in, watches her mouth the phrase, turn it over in her mind and try to understand it. “Water under the bridge? I don’t understand.”

It’s so innocent, so endearing.

“It’s just a saying. What I mean is too much has happened in the past. There is no way forward. I’m here, Villanelle because I want to stop thinking about you every waking second. I have to move on with my life.”

Villanelle takes longer to process that, retreats and reaches for her tea. She gulps it down and turns her head away to hide how emotional she is becoming. “You don’t mean it,” she says defiantly, looking back at her and _really_ looking this time.

Eve sighs. She doesn’t even believe it herself, but she sticks to her guns. “I do, Villanelle, I mean it.”

Villanelle shakes her head. “You love me, admit it!” the younger woman pleads. “I know that you do. Maybe you do not understand it, or why you feel it, but there is a reason that you cannot move on from me, we are meant to be together.”

Eve is at a loss for words. She feels blindsided, worries her lip between her teeth and chooses her words carefully. “I can’t move passed everything that has happened, V. I have to leave it all behind; I have to leave you behind.”

“Not me. We can leave it all, move on together. We can live together, somewhere like this if you want. I will look after you and you can look after me too.”

Eve reaches for Villanelle’s cheeks, strokes them. It is the final straw; it seems because the tears finally start to stream the younger woman's cheeks. She blinks furiously, tries to blink them away, tries to pull away when Eve reaches her thumbs up to wipe them, but Eve holds in her place.

“It sounds nice,” she agrees, “but it won’t work, not really. I don’t expect you to change, to give up that integral part of yourself. You are good at what you do, Villanelle, amazing at it even,” she explains, Villanelle watching in wonder and hanging on to every word that she says, “but it’s all too much, I can’t keep up, it will tear me apart.”

Villanelle growls, frustrated. “You are not listening, Eve. None of it matters. If you do not want me then why did you invite me here? Why did you want to see me in person? Why did you unpack your things in the bedroom? You _want_ me to stay here with you.”

Eve bites down on her lip, feels her cheeks heat up. She had expected them to spend some time together, yes. She hadn’t expected Villanelle to lose her bravado and open up to her, to be so vulnerable. She had expected an argument, a confrontation… angry sex. A lot of it.

The ending of a chapter, a dream realised.

But not like this, she couldn’t like this.

“Tell me that you don’t want me.” Villanelle demands, reaching for Eve’s hands and pulling them away from her face, holding them instead. “Tell me.”

It wasn’t so simple.

She sighs. “It’s not as easy as that, Villanelle. I can’t be with you, don’t you understand?”

“You can’t? Or you do not want to.”

Eve huffs.

“I can’t.”

Villanelle wipes her own tears away, nods her head and finishes her tea. She has realised that the only thing that is stopping them is Eve herself, and she’s so close to letting go. “I thought so.”

Eve expects another remark, something else, another argument in support of them giving things a go, but it doesn’t come. Instead, Villanelle rises to her feet and paces for a while before crouching down in front of her.

“You want me, Eve,” Villanelle states, so matter-of-factly, “you wanted me to show up so that you could have me, and here I am.”

Eve looks at her, confused by the sudden change in tactic.

Villanelle was appealing to what she knew Eve had been anticipating.

She couldn’t.

She can't. 

“If you want me, I am here.”

She doesn’t know what possesses her to reach out for Villanelle’s cheeks again. They’re damp, kind of sticky and she uses them to pull the woman closer again.

“I shouldn’t.”

Villanelle shakes her head, dismisses her and closes the gap between them by resting her forehead against Eve’s. “But I am here.”

Eve sighs. “I know.”

She’s so weak, so close to giving in.

“Kiss me, Eve.” Villanelle demands. It’s more forceful this time, less patient.

She thinks about it for just a moment, considers it, weighs up the pros and cons and before she can change her mind, leans in.

She leans in and presses their lips together in a gentle kiss, feels Villanelle whimper into it.

Fucking finally.

She pulls back just enough. “This isn’t forever though, you understand that? It’s just for tonight.”

“Whatever you say, Eve” Villanelle agrees, but not really.

Her voice is low, seductive, and Eve can’t find it in herself to drive the point home anymore, so she leans in and presses her lips to Villanelle’s more insistently.

Finally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to chat, I'm on twitter! -- song4everystory
> 
> Thanks to Fixy who entertained my slight mental breakdown over what Villanelle drinks, and for her very helpful suggestions!!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the part where I actually manage to follow through and finish fic that isn't a one-shot. 
> 
> You guys asked, I'm delivering!
> 
> Thank you to everyone who showed interest in this story and dm'ed me about it!
> 
> Hope you enjoy :)

_It’s not gentle in its delivery, but it never has been, never will be._

Except it is. So gentle, too gentle.

Frustration comes over her in waves and settles somewhere between her thighs. She’s overcome and quite frankly desperate. She leans closer, bites painfully into Villanelle’s lower lip and revels in the hiss that follows. She tries, fails to deepen the kiss.

Villanelle allows herself to fall to her knees, fingers reaching up to settle at Eve’s jaw. She pecks sweetly at Eve’s lips, soothing the bite herself. With feather-light touches to Eve’s jaw, Villanelle kisses her into submission, resetting the pace.

It’s slow. So slow that every detail becomes vivid and inescapable.

Eve realises that she is burning hot, her whole body thrumming with electricity in response to their proximity and in response to _finally_ giving in. Her heart is racing and she’s sure that she’s sweating, even though the temperature outside must be close to zero. Villanelle’s fingers, ice-cold, hold her in place.

Eve pushes against supple lips, trying again to deepen the kiss and they give, just a little.

Just a little, but enough for her to recognise the sharpness of Villanelle’s breath. Pumpkin spice. She almost laughs.

She tries again and this time uses her arms for leverage. They come up to wrap tight around Villanelle’s neck, dragging her closer and then there is it.

La Villanelle.

It hits her hard, dizzies her. She succumbs to it and falters in her attempts to take this further. Her lips grow lazy, but Villanelle continues kissing her undeterred. That familiar, heady scent had always been so assaulting, so disarming.

It still was.

Closer now, Villanelle’s hands reach up and tangle their way into Eve’s curls, twisting them around her fingers. She tugs, but not painfully or particularly pleasurably, just enough that her head falls back to expose her jaw, her neck, her throat.

It’s interesting that out of all possibilities, it is the feel of Eve’s hair between her fingers that has Villanelle moaning against her throat.

It vibrates through her, pulsing prominently between her thighs. It doesn’t stop, won’t stop pulsing and so Eve chases after her lips again.

Eve kisses her furiously, waits for Villanelle to make a move, to drag her towards the cabin, towards the bedroom. Hell, she’d let Villanelle take her right here on the porch that overlooks the lake, but the woman seems content to kiss her.

She groans against Villanelle’s lips, tries to voice her dissatisfaction, tries to plead, but Villanelle gives her no opportunity, holding her in place, taking what she wants.

But gently, so gently.

She attempts to pull Villanelle up into her lap, craving closeness, but the woman doesn’t budge. It’s only when Eve goes to stand up and make the move herself that Villanelle is forced to choose between untangling her fingers from Eve’s hair or rising to her feet as well.

She chooses the latter, tightens her grip on Eve’s hair and kisses her as though her life depends on it.

Eve’s hands come to rest at her hips and attempt to push her backwards in the direction of the cabin. She feels Villanelle’s smirk against her lips momentarily and feels it die.

Villanelle pulls away, untangles her fingers from her hair, steps back and quirks an eyebrow. She’s curious, looking between Eve and the cabin.

She _wants_ Eve to take her to bed, and she wants Eve to hate every second of it, it seems.

Eve doesn’t _want_ it like this. It’s better when it feels like there’s no other choice.

Villanelle waits for Eve to make the move and so she does. She reaches for Villanelle’s hand, intertwines their fingers and heads back inside, heading straight for the bedroom.

Villanelle follows easily, allows herself to be pulled along and smiles almost nervously when Eve looks back at her.

Eve closes the bedroom door behind them. It’s ceremonious in a way, a kind of ‘there’s no turning back now’, at least that’s the look she gives her when she turns to face her again. Her eyebrows raise expectantly, waiting for Villanelle to take over, to throw her back against the door.

She doesn’t.

Eve wants Villanelle to remind her exactly _why_ she shouldn’t be doing this.

She wants it to hurt, but it doesn’t.

The younger woman stays rooted in place, eyes searching. Eve wonders what she’s thinking but doesn’t want to ask, doesn’t want to have to think at all.

She’s nervous at having to initiate, stepping closer to the woman and taking hold of the lapels of her jacket, pushing it off of her shoulders.

Her eyes don’t leave Villanelle’s for even a second.

The jacket is expensive probably, but Villanelle doesn’t seem to mind because she lets it fall to the floor.

“What is it you’re waiting for exactly?” Eve asks, walking Villanelle back against the door, running her fingers over the buttons on her shirt.

She can tease too.

Villanelle gulps, eyeing her like a starving lion and still doesn’t move.

“You,” she clears her throat, “to change your mind.”

Eve looks at her seriously for as long as she can manage and then she laughs. “Oh, get over yourself, I’m not going to change my mind.”

Villanelle’s lips quirk up, her eyebrow follows.

And to seal the deal: “I want it,” Eve husks.

She presses herself up against Villanelle, feels her breath against her lips, wills her to kiss her again.

Villanelle does.

She kisses her hard, deep, so deep that Eve struggles to catch her breath.

They’re fighting then.

Villanelle’s hands are on her face, her neck, her chest, pushing Eve’s out of the way to reach for the hem of her sweatshirt.

Eve fights back. She reaches for Villanelle’s top button and starts to undo them, refuses to lift her arms when Villanelle tries to drag the material up over them.

It’s messy, so messy. But Eve wants it like this.

She undoes the buttons all the way, pushes the material aside and pulls away from the kiss to shamelessly admire her tits.

Villanelle is wearing lingerie, or so it seems.

Eve _hates_ that she was anticipating this.

She’s _angry_ that Villanelle had anticipated this.

So she kisses her harder.

“Wow,” she utters when she lifts her hands to cup them, pulling away to admire them again, hating herself for flattering the woman’s ego. But really, _wow._

“I know right?” Villanelle smirks, dragging Eve’s sweatshirt up over her head.

Eve allows herself to be undressed. Her sweatshirt first and then her shirt, then her bra, her trousers, her underwear.

She helps only by kicking off her shoes.

Villanelle rakes her eyes over her as though she can’t quite believe what she’s seeing.

 _“Wow,”_ she mumbles, eyes flicking up to Eve’s for just a second.

Just a second, but it makes Eve ache. She feels herself throb as Villanelle licks over her lips, looks at her as though she wants to devour her and pushes her back towards the bed.

They almost make it, it’s a valiant effort, but they stop just short.

“Even better from the front,” Villanelle ponders, looking her over again and Eve assumes that she’s referring to the time she saw her half-naked in her own kitchen. Villanelle’s pupils are blown, her hands are wandering. She comes closer, reaches around and gropes her ass, fingernails digging into soft flesh and then they are separated again when her other hand comes up to cup her bare breast.

Eve hisses when teeth sink into her neck, groans when she feels Villanelle suck marks along it.

She’s naked, burning hot, soaking wet and forced to rub her thighs together to try to get some kind of relief.

“Villanelle,” she groans, impatient. She busies herself by pulling the hair tie out of the end of Villanelle’s braid, detangling it with her fingers and watching as it falls out in soft waves against her shoulders.

It feels like silk and she tugs on it, tries to force Villanelle’s mouth lower, just a little bit lower.

She watches, realises that she’s never seen Villanelle with her hair down before but has no time to marvel in it, distracted by soft lips as they turn their attention to her breasts, finally.

Villanelle sucks, bites, licks, kisses, _finally._

It forces a sound from her throat. It’s low, grumbles deep in her chest, causes Villanelle to look up at her and smirk whilst her lips are wrapped tight around her nipple. She sucks, releases it with a pop and turns her attention to the other.

Eve shudders.

She releases a handful of hair to snake a hand down Villanelle’s back, pushing beneath the collar of her opened shirt. She wants it off. She wants to feel Villanelle’s soft skin against her own, but the woman whines in response.

It’s caught at her wrists and she seems genuinely perturbed at having to let go of Eve entirely so that she can help to pull it off.

She glares up at her and Eve smirks, annoys her again by undoing the clasp on her bra.

Villanelle’s hands don’t settle where they had before. Instead, an arm wraps around her lower back to pull her closer whilst the other snakes down between them, fingertips stroking below her navel until they meet soft downy hair.

Eve’s eyebrows shoot up, her hands settling on Villanelle’s shoulders to steady herself. She can feel the arousal deep in her belly and can feel it dripping down to coat her thighs.

Villanelle feels it too soon enough.

The touch is so slight, fingertips running along slick folds, teasing her.

“Oh,” the younger woman gasps. She looks entirely too pleased with herself “this is a nice surprise.”

She’s lost all credibility. She’ll never be able to deny her attraction to Villanelle ever again.

She doesn’t care, she decides.

She whimpers and presses her face against Villanelle’s neck. “ _Please,”._ she’s not going to beg, except she will if Villanelle doesn’t touch her properly soon.

She feels Villanelle hum in response.

“Please, Villanelle.”

Her eyes are squeezed shut, she’s concentrating, as if trying to use telepathy to get Villanelle’s fingers exactly where she needs them.

She needs them.

She needs her.

God, she hates herself.

She rolls her hips, tries to redirect Villanelle’s attention to her clit. It works indirectly. Villanelle’s fingers slide up against it, ghost over it and she moans, fingernails digging deeper, sweaty forehead resting against Villanelle’s shoulder.

She rolls her hips again and again and Villanelle allows it for a moment.

Eve lifts her head and looks at her through hooded eyes. She knows how desperate she must look.

Villanelle looks up from her breasts, the corners of her mouth still twitched up into a smirk.

“So impatient Eve, it is very sexy,” she husks around her nipple, sucking on it again before releasing it with another pop.

She’s about to protest, to fight her, to push her away, she isn’t sure but then lips are leaving hot, open-mouthed kisses between her breasts, then lower and lower.

Villanelle stops touching her, wipes the fingers coated with Eve’s arousal inelegantly on her trouser leg and sinks to her knees.

Eve expects more of the same.

Maybe she deserves to be tortured?

She spreads her legs wider, inviting Villanelle, but they quickly snap closed when she feels the woman’s mouth against her.

“ _Oh… my…”_ Eve starts, grabbing at Villanelle’s shoulders to steady herself. “ _fuck.”_

The air is immediately sucked out of her lungs and she gasps for breath, she gasps, and she keeps gasping and she tries to keep herself upright, eyes falling closed, head falling back and then forwards.

She can’t see Villanelle, hell, she can’t even open her eyes, but she’s sure that she feels the woman smirk against her core before she flattens her tongue and strokes it through her folds.

Villanelle moans, mutters something that Eve doesn’t understand and licks her again.

Villanelle’s hands, stroking up and down the back of her thighs, move up to her ass, fingernails breaking skin this time, Eve’s sure of it.

She whines, tugs harder on the woman’s hair and cries out when swollen lips wrap around her clit, sucking gently before a persistent tongue begins its assault on it, flicking mercilessly against her.

“Yes.” Eve gasps because she can’t think of anything else. She can’t think of anything other than how good it feels and how much time she’s wasted. “Yes, baby.”

Villanelle freezes for a second and when Eve forces her eyes open, pushes Villanelle’s hair out of her face to meet hazel eyes, she’s alarmed by the emotion in them.

Villanelle is looking at her as though nothing else matters but the two of them.

Her cheeks are flushed, her hair is tousled and her chin glistens with Eve.

Eve doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know how to feel but she feels _something_ pull in her chest.

It’s not supposed to be like this.

“It feels so good, please don’t stop.”

Villanelle moans against her core and Eve drags one of her hands through blonde locks to cradle her head encouragingly. Villanelle carries on, her flat tongue rolling over Eve’s clit again and again.

Eve reaches back with her free hand, holding onto one of Villanelle’s, a guttural moan leaving her throat when Villanelle adjusts her angle to lick her deeper in response.

It’s like Villanelle knows her body, knows exactly what she likes, like she’s done this one thousand times before.

Eve wishes that she had.

She wishes now, with Villanelle knelt before her, pleasing her, that she had left with her six months ago in Rome and that she hadn’t stabbed her in Paris months before that.

They’ve spent so long hurting each other when they could have been doing _this._

Eve breaks eye contact, overwhelmed, and lets her head fall back. “I’m close, don’t stop.”

Villanelle doesn’t stop.

Eve cries out when she comes. Her whole body stiffens and then she’s trembling and it’s washing over her in waves and her heart is racing and her chest is fluttering and—

Villanelle doesn’t stop.

A whoosh of air leaves her as she falls back against the bed.

She’s grateful not to have to hold herself up anymore but regrets not having the energy to pull herself up enough to watch Villanelle crawl on hands and knees towards the bed.

She’s there though, between her thighs. She’s stroking them, then kissing them, then she starts again.

It happens like that a few times, enough times that Eve loses count.

Her eyelids flutter open and closed, but she watches as Villanelle rises to her feet, her tongue swiping out as far down her chin as she can manage, not wasting a drop of Eve as though she’ll never get to taste her again.

Perhaps she won’t.

The thought weighs heavily on Eve for a moment until she watches Villanelle thumb the waistband of her own pants, pushing them down toned thighs along with her underwear, kicking them off and standing before her.

It’s an offering, should Eve be willing to accept.

And _God_ , she does, she accepts.

Dazed, she reaches for the woman, pulls her down beside her and takes and takes and takes.

-

Eve didn’t have Villanelle down as the type of woman who likes to be cuddled after sex, but it turns out she is.

“No more,” she pleads, pulling her core away from Eve’s mouth, sliding off of her face and collapsing down on top of her.

Villanelle kisses her senseless, kisses at her mouth, her nose, her chin, cleaning her up.

Eve isn’t surprised that the woman enjoys how she tastes, made obvious by the fact that she licks at her own lips and smiles up at her after resting her head on her shoulder.

Villanelle’s fingers tangle up in Eve’s hair, she softly kisses the marks across Eve’s chest and then she lets her eyes fall shut.

Eve watches her in total disbelief.

This whole thing is unbelievable.

The light catches on the curtains, dancing across them and she realises that the sun is coming up.

Her fingertips trail mindlessly up and down Villanelle’s spine whilst she wipes her mouth off with her other hand.

It’s so peaceful.

More serene than the calm _before_ the storm had been, rocking back and forth on the rocking chair, looking out at Lake Bled.

She’s satisfied now, finally.

-

Eve wakes in the late afternoon.

The room smells like the sun and like sex.

Early autumn is funny like that. It can’t decide whether it wants to be hot or cold, sometimes settling for mild.

Not today.

Fingertips stroke gently up and down her arm and when she opens her eyes, she realises that Villanelle is awake.

She’s still wrapped up in Eve’s arms like she had been when she had fallen asleep earlier in the day.

Eve smiles down at her, Villanelle smiles back.

She’s shy, it’s weird.

Eve feels different. Everything is different.

“I’m sore,” she muses, laughing gently. She rubs a hand over her face, not exactly sure where she ought to put them.

“Me too.” Villanelle agrees, leaning up to kiss her.

Eve allows it.

It’s quiet for a while then, both of them thinking.

“I should shower,” Eve sighs.

She doesn’t know what is supposed to happen now, but she certainly can’t think with Villanelle wrapped around her. She can’t think whilst looking at the marks and bites and _bruises_ that cover the woman’s chest. Her own work.

“Not yet.” It’s quiet. Villanelle’s arms tighten around her and she nuzzles her face into the crook of Eve’s neck.

Eve sighs, stretches out languidly beneath her, strokes blonde hairs into place.

Villanelle lifts onto her elbows after a while, regards her carefully.

It’s Eve’s turn to feel shy.

“I love you,” Villanelle proclaims earnestly. “in the best way I know how, I do.”

Eve’s heart beats wildly. She knows. She knows. “I know,” She says before she has time to think better of it.

Villanelle nods, a smile spreading across her cheeks. “Good.”

It’s different now. Everything has changed.

Eve doesn’t say it back, she’s not ready to say it back, but it’s obvious that Villanelle doesn’t need her to.

Instead, “do you want to take a shower with me?” she offers.

Villanelle’s eyes light up, she leans in and kisses her again and nods. “Let’s take a shower,” she agrees.

Villanelle leaps out of bed, Eve takes longer.

She watches Villanelle’s legs and her ass and her back and that messed up head of hair and the lazy smile that greets her when Villanelle turns her head towards her.

She pulls her tired body out from under the sheets and follows after her.

She thinks that she might always follow after her and she’s okay with it, _finally._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to chat, I'm on twitter! -- @song4everystory

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to chat, I'm on twitter! -- song4everystory


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